


A Sort of Healing

by baranduin



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:16:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baranduin/pseuds/baranduin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Healing comes in different forms. I wrote this story for my dearest Laura Mason (Lorie945 on LiveJournal) for the Frodo New Year Mathoms fic exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sort of Healing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laura Mason (lorie945)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Laura+Mason+%28lorie945%29).



> Many thanks to Trianne for beta reading.

"So much damage."

It was the first time Frodo had seen the extent of the devastation which had been wrought on Minas Tirith. Though the streets were clear of rubble and full of smiling people (smiling at him if he'd had the wherewithal to notice), still Frodo felt as though he were picking his way through a path that might at any minute become blocked. So he stepped lightly and slowly turned his head left and right as he wound his way through the City's levels, seeking the lowest gate.

Here was a fallen statue, or rather, the head and shoulders of a statue. It was a woman, and her face looked up at Frodo with a serene blindness that gave not the slightest acknowledgment of the ruin in which she rested. Her features were strong and fair, and she seemed to say, "See? They did not conquer. We are still here." And Frodo had no doubt that her form would be lifted carefully back into place, lovingly mended perhaps by Gimli's folk come from the Lonely Mountain to help with the restoration of Aragorn's white city.

A little further on, Frodo stopped again, though this time it was nothing so grand as an ancient daughter of Gondor that arrested his attention. No, this time it was just a piece of broken stonework, a bit of carved cornice perhaps that had once adorned a home which perched on Mindolluin's side and gazed out proudly across the Pellenor. Its white stone lay covered in dust and there were many cracks and sharp edges that had not been put there by its maker. But, just as Frodo and Sam had been moved to tears by the flowers growing out of the fallen king's head at the Crossroads, so this small, inconsequential bit of stone was crowned with a new green vine. Frodo searched his memory, but he could not put a name to it. Though he was nowhere near as learned as Sam in the matter of growing things, nevertheless he was a hobbit and knew well that which grew and thrived in his home. So Frodo knew that this little plant, pushing and curling its way seemingly out of bare rock, must be one that belonged to the south.

"I must remember to ask Faramir ... or Iorhael if I see her again."

Sunset was approaching, so Frodo quickened his pace. After all, he'd told Sam he'd only be a little while, and Sam would be sure to worry if he did not return within the allotted time. Not that there were any dangers left, at least not of the variety which had tormented them on their hard, cruel road to the Sammath Naur. But still, Frodo had felt the need to walk on the Pellenor a little while, or perhaps wander around the feet of the mountain. Just to see what he could see. And then he would return to Sam safe and sound. That is, as sound as he was ever going to be.

The gates had not yet been rebuilt, and Frodo suspected that Aragorn would take great thought and care in their renewal. But the city was still protected by a wooden barrier laid across the opening in the wall. Guards clad in bright mail with the image of Telperion's heir etched across their chests stood unmoving and watchful. Though they were all men strong and tall, when they saw Frodo approach and realized who it was who was honoring them with his presence, they could be forgiven for straightening their shoulders a little more and raising their chins a little higher. It is possible also that their mouths curved upward in a little smile though their helms prevented a clear view of such an unlikely thing. Still, they all stood unmoving and calm.

Except for their captain, who knelt. "Greetings, master Perian. Do you wish to depart the City?"

Frodo smiled. They were courteous, these men of Gondor. Rather like Faramir and Boromir ... at least like Boromir as he had been Rivendell, before he'd been mastered by desire for that wretched bauble. Frodo swallowed hard and answered, "Yes, please. I would like to walk outside for a bit."

The man stood, his head inclined respectfully. "I will have one of my men accompany you."

Frodo shook his head. "No, it is not necessary."

"But it is not fitting that the Ring-bearer should wander alone outside the walls of the City."

"Well, good sir, I have done quite a few things not fitting to hobbit or elf or man in the past months. One more will not do any harm. But thank you for your offer."

Though the soldier wore the close-fitting helm that Frodo had grown accustomed to seeing, nevertheless he could have sworn that the man blushed.

"Just like a poppy, his face looks," Frodo thought though he repressed the laugh he felt bubbling up inside him. He was getting quite good at doing that, for in these sun-filled days in Minas Tirith he found that he laughed as easily as he breathed. Fortunately Sam was usually with him and so was able to head off an ill-timed chuckle with a stealthy kick to the shins. Odd it was to laugh so much. Perhaps if he laughed enough, it would fill up the empty corners that had gnawed their way inside him once he'd seen that thing melt away as though it had been but a chunk of yellow cheese melting into a pot of bubbling rarebit.

"As you wish," the guard said and motioned for his men to open the barrier far enough for a hobbit to slip past. "Enjoy your walk," he said and bowed.

Frodo bowed back. "Heavens, these people bow a lot."

It was a strange thing, this desire for the open spaces of the Pellenor, for Frodo had not lacked in fresh air and light in all the time that he'd been cooped up in the Houses of Healing until the most grievous of his physical injuries had been well on their way to being mended. Well, cooped up wasn't quite right. He'd been glad of the soft bed and the loving words and the gentle touches ... though not of the vile potions that the Healer and Gandalf concocted between them. But even walking high in the Citadel, or standing at its knife-edged prow and looking out on the Pellenor (never lifting his eyes across Anduin for he would not look on that side of the River again), he'd felt a little cooped up and had wanted to plant himself squarely on the ground without some gaping chasm opening out before him, ready to make his head spin with dizziness and his feet stumble. Not when he'd come so far and there was so much more laughter to send out into the world before he departed it.

Spread out before him, now that he had escaped the barrier, was the Pellenor, where the great battle had been fought and Merry, his beloved Merry, had done the unimaginable. But ...

"Ninnyhammers."

Perhaps it was better to say that somewhere before him was spread the plain of the Pellenor. Beyond all those tents and horses and men milling about and horses and bonfires and horses and carefully balanced phalanxes of spears and horses and ...

Yes, Rohan had come ... and they had stayed.

At least for a little while longer, for Frodo knew that soon they would take Theoden King back to Edoras and the place of his long rest. He would sleep in a rounded barrow, or so Merry had described it to him ...

"Like hobbit holes?" Frodo had asked.

"A little ... though the doors are not round, and only the dead are there. Their houses are great wooden things, very tall," Merry had answered, a thoughtful look on his face.

As Frodo started picking his way around campfire and colorful tent and horse, he heard a faint trumpet sound. He looked up. How far he had come! The white banner of the King floated high above him now, so high that he could barely see it though he knew it was there. He liked the thought that it would always be there from now on, even when he had departed from Gondor and would never see it again. But wasn't it a little early for the evening trumpet call? Though the sun was just beginning to sink behind the White Mountains, still it was bright day.

"Hearing things you are, silly Baggins," Frodo thought ruefully to himself, and continued on his way.

Well, these men of Rohan were quite a different breed than the Gondorians; that was as clear as the hair on his feet and the bandage on his finger. They were not as circumspect or formal, he thought, as the seventh man stood upright and grinned at him, his hand a fist against his chest and bright braids flowing over his shoulders.

Though they were friendly in bearing, they did not speak to Frodo. He did catch the word, "holbytla" time and again and knew (from the knowledgeable Merry of course) that they were talking of him as holbytla meant halfling. He liked the sound of it. Somehow it seemed more down to earth than "perian."

The outthrust knees of Mindolluin were many and winding, and Frodo enjoyed his half hour of skirting them in a leisurely manner, admiring the brightly-patterned tents. Each two outcroppings of stone were made such that they formed a natural pen, and Frodo saw that the Rohirrim were making good use of the spaces as there were many horses there, stabled in a rough but practical manner.

As Frodo rounded yet another outcropping of Mindolluin's base, he heard the trumpet sound again. But this time it rang loud and clear, and he recognized it.

He ran around the tumbled leg of stone and there before his eyes was an oliphaunt, stabled in one of the little pens. But this oliphaunt did not tower up into the sky. It was a small one, barely taller than the man tending it.

For it was not alone, though Frodo suspected immediately that it must be lonesome. One of the Rohirrim was there, feeding it. Talking to it, soothing it for it seemed anxious in its movements. But it also seemed to like the man and wound its trunk around his wrist like a friendly serpent. When it reached its trunk around his back and tugged on one of his braids, Frodo laughed out loud.

The man whirled about. The fierce look of the battle-hardened warrior caught unawares softened at the sight of Frodo standing before him. Oh, yes, he looked different than the men of Gondor, rougher, wilder. Perhaps akin in some way to the little trumpeting beast who even now was still nuzzling against him.

"Ring-bearer. I bid you good evening. I am Eomer of Rohan."

Ah, Frodo thought to himself. I remember him. And he is not so wild that he cannot bow ... though the men of Gondor do not make their bows with such extravagant flourishes of the hand and braids. How well-spoken he is. But hadn't Merry said something about Theoden being so polite to him and Pippin?

Frodo smiled. "Good evening. I am pleased to meet you, Eomer of Rohan. Where has this oliphaunt come from?"

Eomer smiled back, and what a smile! However they grew them in Rohan, their teeth came in straight and white. "What did you call it?"

"An oliphaunt. What do you call it?"

Eomer laughed. "Naught until a few weeks ago, for I had no notion that such a beast existed. But I have heard them referred to by the Haradrim prisoners as mumak ... mumakil for many of them." He winked. "I think oliphaunt suits this little one better."

"Little?"

"Ah, this is but a babe. We found her near the River, by her slain mother's side. Full-grown, she will stand many feet above us. It is difficult to believe, but I have seen them stampeding, their bellies swaying high above me, long woven trappings hanging down from their sides. If I had not seen them for my own eyes, I would have thought them naught but some phantom of sorcery from the wild south."

Frodo laughed and it startled Eomer. How merry the sound of Frodo's laugh was, as though he had not a care in the world. If Eomer were to shut his eyes, he might think Frodo had never known a moment's unhappiness. But with eyes open, the scars were fresh and vital ... almost unbearably poignant to Eomer's eyes and ears.

"Sam and I saw two oliphaunts in Ithilien."

"It must have been a fearsome sight."

"Oh, yes, but it made us laugh, you know ... or rather, I laughed when Sam stood up and said his bit of poetry."

"Verses for an oliphaunt?" Eomer asked, his voice rich with amusement. "Then you knew of such creatures?"

Frodo smiled and approached the baby oliphaunt, reaching out and stroking her trunk. How soft her skin was, though Frodo knew that would change if she survived. "Not exactly," he answered. "At least, I don't believe either Sam or I ever actually believed they existed, but in the Shire there has long been known a bit of rhyme. Though you know ... I think Sam did actually believe in them for he knew what they were straight away." Frodo stepped away from the oliphaunt, which returned its attentions to Eomer.

"I would hear this rhyme from you, Ring-bearer."

Frodo smiled. "All right ... I think I remember it though I'm sure I cannot speak it as well as Sam did."

"But Sam is not here, and you are. It would please me to hear it."

Frodo closed his eyes for a minute, recalling the verse from his memory. When he opened his eyes, ready to speak, he found himself eye to eye with Eomer for the man had knelt down. He cleared his throat and began.

_ Grey as a mouse,  
Big as a house,  
Nose like a snake,  
I make the earth shake,  
As I tramp through the grass;  
Trees crack as I pass._

 

The oliphaunt approaching Eomer with its trunk waving before it was certainly grey as a mouse and had a nose like a snake, but the man was so intent on Frodo's recitation that he no inkling of its approach even though it stamped tramped quite loudly.

_ With horns in my mouth  
I walk in the South,  
Flapping big ears._

 

Eomer jerked when his grey friend snaked its trunk around his shoulder, but his attention did not stray.

_ Beyond count of years  
I stump round and round,  
Never lie on the ground,  
Not even to die._

 

The oliphaunt liked having its trunk rubbed by Eomer. How at ease the babe was, and what a miracle that was to Frodo at that moment. Far from its home, without its mother, though he suspected it might consider Eomer its mother. A good one from what Frodo could see.

_ Oliphaunt am I,  
Biggest of all,  
Huge, old, and tall.  
If ever you'd met me  
You wouldn't forget me._

 

"I shan't forget you, little one," Frodo thought.

_ If you never do,  
You won't think I'm true;  
But old Oliphaunt am I,  
And I never lie.  
(The Two Towers, "The Black Gate Is Closed")_

 

Frodo bowed, and Eomer applauded. The oliphaunt joined in with a trumpet or two.

"Ah, she likes it. The Shirefolk have immortalized her. Perhaps you would like to take her home with you," Eomer said, standing up and dusting off his knees.

"Oh, that would be a sight, possibly better even than a dragon invasion," Frodo said with a broad smile. "But I am sure this one would be happier going home. You do mean to send her to her home, do you not?"

Eomer's expression grew grave. "I do not know. My men wanted to slay her at first, saying that she could not survive, but I would not countenance such a thing."

"I am glad to hear that, Eomer of Rohan."

"Are you, my holbytla? Then we are of like mind. But ..."

"Yes?" Frodo asked.

"I am in difficulties knowing what to do with her. Perhaps you might counsel me."

"If I can."

"It would be a great thing to have an oliphaunt in Rohan. She would be treated as a queen, and I might in time be able to bring her a consort from the south. I believe her kind would live well upon our plains. What say you, Frodo?"

Frodo watched the two wild things, man and beast, for a minute. There was true affection between them; it was plain to see or he was no judge of anything. But ...

"Well, Frodo?"

Frodo took a deep breath and gave his answer. "I think she would be lonely for her home though she has never seen it and for her people though she has never known any but her mother's living womb. Send her home, Eomer. That is what I would do. Send her home when you release the Haradrim. They will take her with them surely."

For a minute, Frodo was afraid he'd given offense for Eomer's expression was fathomless. He neither smiled nor frowned though Frodo thought the man was merely schooling his features out of politeness. But after a moment, Eomer grinned and slapped the oliphaunt's trunk gently.

"I thank you, Frodo of the Shire. It was but an idle fancy, though of course I will think on it some more before I make my decision."

The evening trumpet rang faint but clear. After bidding the oliphaunt farewell, Eomer accompanied Frodo back into the City and they spoke no more of Eomer's dilemma that evening.

* * *

"Come to my tent this evening, and I will ease some of your aches and pains," Eomer had said when he had galloped to Frodo's side that day.

They were on their second day out from Minas Tirith, and it was a great host that accompanied Theoden back to Edoras and his fitting rest. When they had started out, Frodo had been pleased that he would be riding instead of walking. But now he was not so sure. Though he had traveled in hard circumstances—hard being an understatement—for many months, still his body rebelled at being jounced about on horseback like a sack of potatoes for so many hours at a stretch.

He reached down and patted Strider's neck before looking up at Eomer and nodding.

"Was that a yes, my holbytla?"

"It is kind of you to offer, but I am fine."

"Oh, so say you? Do you think me such a poor judge of riders that I cannot tell when one is unaccustomed to a long day in the saddle? Come, Frodo. It is no shame to be saddle sore."

Frodo laughed at that and reached down to rub his sore backside. "You are right."

"Very well, I shall expect you after evening meat. Though ..."

"What?"

"I am not sure I should reward you so. I am still not sure I did the right thing with our oliphaunt. She would have graced Edoras for many years ... the only oliphaunt north of the Sea."

"Yes, if she had lived that long and not pined away from longing for her own kind," Frodo responded. He spoke tartly but with a smile on his face, for he knew that Eomer had come to the same decision in his own heart and was but chaffing Frodo a bit for the pleasure of it.

But Eomer said no more, instead speaking softly to his horse before riding away with a nod and a wink.

Frodo eased himself in his saddle. Heavens, these were long miles. He would indeed look forward to this evening, and not just because of the promise of a good hot meal.

* * *

 

Frodo stood outside Eomer's tent, shuffling from one foot to the other, unsure that this was where he wanted to be now that he had come to it. Yes, his muscles were sore and his finger ached with a bone-deep throbbing that he suspected would never really go away, especially in the part that was no longer there. But it was more than that. All the laughter in the world—jests shared with his friends on the road, a simple chuckle at the delight of fresh cream on his tongue—would not fill up that emptiness inside him. He could hide it most of the time, or least cover up the worst of it, but tonight he suspected he was too tired to dissemble much.

"There you are. I am ready for you. Come in." A wedge of golden light opened up before Frodo as Eomer held the tent flap open.

Too late to turn tail and run. Frodo entered the tent and looked about him. He raised his eyebrows a little as he took in the rich furnishings—pelts of soft fur covering the ground, thick woolen blankets laid on the cot, pillows covered in velvet and silk strewn on the furs. Rather like a setting for a seduction, if he didn't know better. He supposed he could make the best of it and was not ashamed to admit that the best would be very fine indeed, regardless of his private worries. To the Lockholes with his worries for the night, he told himself as he turned and faced Eomer.

"Where do you want me?" Frodo asked and stared at Eomer. Blast his fair skin that showed even a hint of a flush. And blast Eomer for not being clad in his normal attire of layered armor and mail skirts and, well, many layers to hide his long straight limbs and slim hips. Apparently under all those layers lay simple clothes of shirt and leggings that clung to his well-muscled body.

Well, what do you expect him to wear when he is at leisure in his own tent?

"On the ground ... there. On your belly. No ... take off your shirt first ... and put that bolster beneath you."

Frodo slipped off his braces and unbuttoned his shirt. After laying it on Eomer's cot, he knelt on the floor, his toes digging with pleasure into the deep pile of the fur—beaver, he thought for it was so thick and silken to the touch. Pulling the bolster beneath him, its velvet covering brushing against his chest, he settled comfortably with his head pillowed on his arms and closed his eyes.

Eomer did not speak, but Frodo could hear him moving around the tent. "What are you doing?" Frodo asked.

A low chuckle from Eomer made Frodo glad that he was lying with his belly to the ground, for he felt it in every fiber of his body. Especially in a certain appendage located below his waist. Ohhh. He had not felt that in many a month. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd felt the barest hint of arousal. No matter what came this night, this moment felt good and Frodo was grateful for the life returning to him.

"Surely you do not expect me to rub away your aches with my hands unsoftened with oil or lotion?"

"Oh, certainly not," Frodo murmured.

The quiet pop of a bottle being uncorked was followed by a faint scent of something fresh and green, some sort of mint Frodo surmised though by now he was too comfortable to give it more than a passing thought. He felt Eomer settle by his side, and then a thin drizzle of the oil poured down upon his spine. It was cool, and he shivered.

"My apologies ... I should have warmed the oil in my hands first."

"You are forgiven."

Eomer chuckled again, but by now Frodo had grown accustomed to it so it merely added to the heat suffusing him, body and heart.

Well, the oil might have been cool upon first contact with Frodo's skin, but Eomer's hands were not. They were warm and strong and gentle.

After a moment, Frodo gasped.

Immediately, Eomer removed his hands from Frodo's shoulders. "I am sorry. I have hurt you."

"No ... not at all. I was just ... surprised."

"Surprised? At what, my holbytla?"

"Your hands. They are so gentle."

Though Frodo could not see Eomer's face, he knew the man was smiling again, and that it was a big smile, full-hearted. "Did you think they would not be?"

"I do not know what I thought. You are, well, very large and strong."

Frodo might not have been able to see Eomer's smile, but he could hear his laughter and it warmed him even more. "And how do you think we Rohirrim would manage our horses if we were hard and cruel to them? Do you think they would give us their devotion even unto their deaths if we treated them with hatred instead of love, with harsh hands instead of gentle ones?"

It was true that the Rohirrim were not learned in books and other things deemed important by gentlehobbits, but Frodo was not so retiring and scholarly that he did not recognize wisdom when he saw it ... or rather, felt it being kneaded into his weary muscles, there to be absorbed by his very bones.

They did not speak again for some minutes. It is possible that Frodo would not have been able to utter anything intelligible even if he had been asked. On the other hand, it was enough—more than enough—to sprawl surrendered on the furs while Eomer mastered his body with hands at once gentle and strong. From the back of his neck to the hollow of his back, Eomer's hands took charge of Frodo's body.

Part of his body, that is. That unruly member of his that had shown signs of life a few minutes before returned in full force, swelling to a size that Frodo was quite sure he had not attained in the past. It did not help the situation that on occasion, Eomer slipped his thumbs below the waistband of Frodo's breeches and pressed hard. And a time or two, he even cupped Frodo's bottom and squeezed gently.

Frodo groaned. Then cursed inwardly for once again Eomer had removed his hands.

"Have my hands probed too deeply, Frodo?"

"No," Frodo whispered.

"No matter. Turn over. I would not ignore the other side of you."

For a moment, Frodo pondered his dilemma and then raised himself up on his elbows. As he rolled over, he cleverly (well, he thought it clever) tugged the edge of one fur to cover his embarrassment. When Eomer made no comment about it, Frodo breathed a sigh of relief, pushed the bolster away from him and lay flat on his back, one knee raised beneath his fur.

"Are you cold?" Eomer asked with one eye brow raised and what looked very like a smirk on his mouth. "I have not done my duty by you if you are still cold," he continued and Frodo was sure the gleam in the dratted man's eye spoke of an intimate knowledge of what lay beneath the fur.

"Just a little cold, Eomer King," Frodo answered. "But I am sure you will remedy the situation."

Oh, truly, Frodo could stay warm the rest of his life just at the sound of Eomer's laughter. "What a King he will be for his people," he thought. "Not only are the people of Gondor blessed, but those of Rohan as well in their lord."

"I will do my best," Eomer said with a little bow and then slid down the floor to Frodo's feet. "But I have been remiss. Surely your feet require my attention as well as your back and shoulders and neck."

With that, Eomer picked up one of Frodo's feet and cradled it in his palm. With his other hand, he poured a little oil directly onto the arch of Frodo's foot. In a moment Frodo thought he might pass out from the sheer bliss of Eomer's talented fingers pressing parts of his foot that he had no idea were capable of feeling such pleasure. No one had ever done that to him before, and he was quite sure he was sorely deprived because of the lack. When Eomer released his foot and picked up the other, Frodo groaned.

"It is quite amazing to me, you know," Eomer said softly, stroking the instep of Frodo's foot with one delicate finger.

Frodo rose on his elbows and smiled up at Eomer. "What is amazing? Your hands? I agree." Eomer had the deepest brown eyes Frodo had ever seen, like the hot chocolate drink he'd had in Rivendell. Why hadn't he noticed that before?

"Nay, do not trifle with me, halfling," Eomer said and leaned toward Frodo. He lowered his voice as if confiding a deep dark secret and continued. "Do you know that people think you are a delicate thing?"

"Do they," Frodo whispered back. "And why would they think that?"

"Well, having seen your feet up close, I am wondering that myself. Truly, the sight of your feet brought it to mind all of a sudden. But ... I will tell you why." He settled on his haunches and drew both of Frodo's feet onto his lap. "It is your skin. Some folk say ..." He glanced quickly at the tent's opening. Though Frodo started in surprise, he realized after a moment that it was but another feint of Eomer's and so said nothing, enjoying the jest. "I must be vigilant, you understand, even in the privacy of my own tent. As I was saying," Eomer continued, "some folk say that your skin is so translucent that when you drink a cup of wine, it can be seen flowing down your throat like a glowing stream of liquid rubies. What say you to that? Shall we put it to the test?"

Well, Frodo did not even try to stifle the laughter that shook him. And neither did Eomer. In fact, he joined the hobbit, and they laughed together for a long while. At length, when Frodo had regained his wits somewhat, he gave Eomer his answer. "Where is the wine, horse lord? Or have you only sour ale? If my skin is that translucent, surely you should be able to see even pale yellow ale spilling down my throat."

Eomer stood up though not completely straight, for it is difficult to stand up at attention when one is overtaken with chuckles and snorts. There was a small folding table set up by the cot, on which a flagon of something rested as well as two earthen cups. From the flagon he poured red wine into the cups and brought one to Frodo.

"What?" Frodo said, his hands held up in protest. "Am I, the translucent hobbit, to drink from such a ... a ... what? Goblet? Do you call this a goblet?

"No," Eomer responded, drinking his measure. "I call it a cup."

Frodo smiled and reached out for it. "Well, watch carefully, my King." He drank down the wine, surprised a little at its mellow fineness, keeping his eyes trained all the while on Eomer. When he finished, he handed the cup back to Eomer and said, "Well? Is my throat as transparent as rumor has it? What did you see?"

At first Eomer said nothing. He took a few paces and replaced the cups on their little table. When he returned, he knelt at Frodo's side but still said nothing.

Frodo cleared his throat. "What is wrong? It was but a jest, I realize."

"I know," Eomer said softly. "Shall I tell you what I saw?"

"I ... I don't know."

"I shall tell you anyway. Your throat is as pale as the finest porcelain that I have seen in Minas Tirith ... we have no such things as fine in Rohan though people also say that the thatched roof of Meduseld gleams in the sunlight like brightest gold. But I had little thought for your throat, fine as it is."

"Then what did you have thought for?"

Eomer reached out one hand and stroked Frodo's body with a gentle touch—the thin white line on his shoulder, the red lump on his neck, the barest hint of the whip scar on his hip that rose just above the waistband of his breeches, the bandaged finger. "I see the honorable fruits of battle, my friend."

Ah.

"They are ugly."

"They are beautiful. Wear them proudly, for you have earned them."

"Perhaps that is easy for you to say, for you are a warrior. I am not. Anyway, I have seen no scars on your body."

"That is easy to remedy."

Frodo rose to his knees, letting the fur drop to his feet, and watched as Eomer stripped off his shirt. An old scar ran below his left breast, obscured a little by a luxuriant growth of hair. Soft hair, as Frodo discovered when he ran his fingers across it, stroking the ridged flesh as lightly as Eomer had touched his scars.

"There is a new one," Eomer said.

"Where?"

"On my back." Eomer lay down with his belly flat to the ground, and there was indeed a fresh wound. Or several fresh wounds, for there was a series of parallel scars that ran across his shoulder blade and they were still bright red from new healing.

"How?" Frodo asked.

"A troll, with a sort of curved claw for a weapon. He did not survive his attack on me, needless to say."

"Of course." Though Frodo meant to merely stroke the wound, instead he kissed it and ran his lips down each claw mark. He sat up quickly and flushed. Casting about in his mind, he said, "Does it still hurt?"

Eomer turned on his side and smiled up at Frodo. "Not so much as it has. Frodo."

How odd. Eomer's voice was usually so clear and forthright, but for some reason it had gone all husky. "Yes, Eomer?"

"Will you lay with me tonight? Will you take this horse lord into your bed for this night? I promise at the least that I will keep you warm."

Oh, yes.

They looked at each other silently, and Frodo wondered if the man would ever move. He did not, but the warmth in his eyes faded into confusion. "What is wrong?" Frodo finally blurted out.

"I did not mean to offend you. I would not keep you here against your will," Eomer said and lowered his eyes.

"But I said yes," Frodo said. Oh, dear. "At least, I said it in my own mind."

Eomer threw his head back and laughed. Frodo might have joined him, but he grew rather fascinated by the sight of Eomer's stomach muscles flexing and rippling in the candle light. In between shouts of laughter, Eomer said, "Do I have pointed ears, my holbytla? I am no elf who has the gift of sneaking into other folk's minds. I have not that dwimmercraft, though it would have served me just now, I must admit. Well?" And he held out his arms.

Frodo did not have to be asked again. He lay down next to Eomer and rested his head on the man's shoulder. Eomer wrapped his arms around Frodo, and they lay quietly together, just breathing in and out as they grew accustomed to the feel and scent of each other. At length, Frodo squirmed closer and threw one leg over Eomer's waist. It made the man sigh, and Frodo liked that very well.

It was Eomer who broke their silence, and it gave Frodo a happy tingle at the back of his neck that the husky sound was back in his horse lord's voice. "Will you let me take you, Frodo? I will be as gentle with you as I am with a foal."

"Eomer, you mate with foals?"

"Tcha. I also know how to gentle unruly stallions."

"Then do it," Frodo said and his voice shook with a fierceness that made Eomer pull back. "I want no gentleness tonight. I want ..."

"What?" Eomer cupped Frodo's face in his hands. "What do you need from me?"

"To fill me up ... fill up this ... nothingness inside me. Please. Even pain is better than that."

With a suddenness that left Frodo gasping for breath, the hobbit found himself flat on his back. "As you wish," Eomer said. "But I warn you that I might yet be gentle with you on occasion."

Before Frodo had the chance to say anything to that, Eomer kissed him and he gasped. But this time, Eomer did not draw away. No, he pressed Frodo into the fur and Frodo felt the rich pelt cushioning his back and the hair of Eomer's chest scraping his skin. He would have cried out from the pleasure of it, but his mouth was thoroughly occupied with being invaded by a soft, warm tongue. He sucked hard and this time it was Eomer who moaned, so he sucked harder before pulling back, panting.

Eomer spoke, his voice harsh with desire, "I believe I could see that wine flowing down your throat, but the redness has disappeared. Shall I make it come again?"

In answer, Frodo pulled Eomer's head down hard to his shoulder and arched his neck. He cried out as Eomer fastened his mouth on his throat in hard, biting kisses, lingering here and there along the pale column of his flesh to suck at him as though he were a hobbit child sucking a boiled sweet.

Feels so good ... don't stop ...

But too soon, Eomer did stop. He reared up on his knees, tugging the leather ties that held his braids together until his fair hair shielded his flushed face. With both hands, he reached down and pulled Frodo's breeches off in one quick movement. Then he sat back and laughed.

Frodo panted. "What?"

"What are those ... drooping things?"

Frodo looked down at his neat drawers and shook his head. "They are what we wear beneath our breeches like all decent folk."

"I wear no such thing," Eomer said, pressing his thumb against the thick ridge that pressed beneath Frodo's drawers, paying particular attention to a round wet spot.

"As I said, decent folk wear them," Frodo said, smiling broadly. He liked this man, oh he did, very much.

Eomer compressed his mouth to a tight line though his eyes sparked. He ran his hand up and down on his own thick ridge. "Decent or not, we share one thing."

Frodo sat up and said, "Yes, we do ... now are we going to do something about it or are you going to lollygag about the rest of the night comparing items of clothing?"

It knocked the breath from Frodo when Eomer jerked him into his arms and they knelt pressed bare chest to bare chest, breathing hard. With one hand, Eomer held Frodo to him and with the other he pulled down both his own breeches and Frodo's drawers. They lay down and kicked the offending garments away and then it was all a tangle of smooth legs and hairy legs and hard cocks pressing and rubbing and rubbing and rubbing and for a moment Frodo thought he might not survive until the filling up part arrived.

But arrive it did, and in the form of Eomer's long, stiff cock well-oiled by Frodo's greedy hands. That bolster served a second function of the night, for Eomer positioned Frodo's hips upon it. When he had Frodo laid out to his satisfaction with thighs spread wide, he sat back on his haunches and watched the hobbit.

"Oh, yes, my holbytla, I see the red wine flowing down your throat. More beautiful than rubies. Would you like something else to flow inside you?"

Yes.

Eomer smiled, and Frodo knew that the man had attained that dwimmercraft of reading his mind, easy though it must have been.

When Eomer pressed one finger inside him, twisting gently and spreading Frodo's tender flesh, Frodo closed his eyes and pushed back. Hard.

"Easy, my holbytla."

But Frodo was impatient, and Eomer was too, if he had admitted it to Frodo. But Eomer was still master of his own impatience and, though Frodo had as much as asked to be taken harshly, still he would not do that. Not yet, not when his holbytla's body was so tender. There would be time for that later.

"Please ..." Frodo's voice came out ragged between harsh pants, his hand squeezing his own cock, whether to make the pleasure come that much faster or to hold it back, Eomer could not tell.

"Sshh ..." Eomer pulled his fingers away from Frodo and laid them over Frodo's hand, stroking gently as he kneeled between Frodo's thighs. Frodo pulled his hand away and took Eomer's cock, pressing it eagerly to his opening.

Frodo had thought that Eomer would fill him quickly and that the pain would blot out his shadows in that moment. But Eomer did not. No, he moved slowly, almost leisurely, and the pain was pain/not pain and it stretched Frodo to a point where he thought he would scream so loudly that the guards would come running but that the scream would not be of pain but of a pinpoint balance between tearing pain and searing pleasure. He turned his head to the side and bit down on the fur he lay upon, bit hard while Eomer filled him long slow inch by inch until he felt Eomer's balls sliding against his bottom, warm and heavy.

And then Eomer stopped and lay still, poised above Frodo. He whispered, "Are you full, my holbytla?"

Frodo turned his head and opened his eyes and almost cried out at the look in Eomer's eyes. He could not speak so he nodded, just once. Eomer still did not move, contenting himself with looking down at Frodo spread open before him, holding him tight with his grasp.

"I am full, too," Eomer finally said.

Frodo did not realize he was crying until Eomer reached down and licked them away from his cheeks. And then Eomer began to move, and all thought of fullness and emptiness disappeared and Frodo just was. For those moments as they moved as one in their loving dance, there was just him and this wonderful man and their joyful lovemaking.

And it was enough for Frodo that night.

* * *

 

Eomer knelt by Frodo's side. "I think you are a very tricksy creature."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"You got round me once by talking me into letting my oliphaunt go home, and here you have done it again and are leaving me to go to your home."

Frodo threw his arms around Eomer's neck. "Thank you," he whispered against Eomer's ear. "I will remember you."

Eomer pulled back and stood up. He held Frodo's pony while the hobbit mounted. Patting the pony's neck, he looked up at Frodo and said, "And I will remember you, my holbytla. But ..."

"Yes?"

"Are you sure you would not prefer to take service with me as Meriadoc has done? After all he is an Esquire of the Mark now and yet he returns to his home. It is but a ceremonial honor, you understand."

Frodo laughed and took Strider's reins in his hands. "Farewell, Eomer of Rohan."

"Farewell, my holbytla. May you have safe journey to your home."

Both Eomer and Frodo had smiles on their faces as Frodo and company departed Edoras, but there was a little ache in each of their hearts. For once, Frodo did not mind this little ache for he had but to reach into his mind to soothe it with the memory of Eomer's warmth at a time when he sorely needed it. And that was enough for a time.

For Eomer, the memory was also enough for a time, until that day when the letter arrived from Meriadoc, Esquire of Rohan, announcing Frodo's departure from Middle-earth. Ever after, whenever Eomer took out the little ache in his heart and thought of his holbytla so sad and suffering far away, he did not even try to soothe it away. In that fashion, he still felt his bond with Frodo and honored it.

It was said that on occasion, the King grew sad and weary, and the only thing that seemed to cheer him up was the recital of a strange little rhyme about the great beasts that had come stamping and trumpeting from the far south, bringing death and destruction with them. Why it was that was the only thing which could bring a smile to their King's face, no one knew and he did not enlighten any of his subjects. But for Eomer of Rohan, it was enough.


End file.
